Medic
by Javelen
Summary: From the IDW MTMTE series. Ratchet sinks into the memories of his past. Gore/war hospital


It had been a long day.

He walked across the medibay, turning off unneeded machines as he went, mind going over numbers in his head. Numbers of that particular needle used, that testube, what he had needed to repair and mend the bots that had returned from the planet below. Ratchet sighed, and tiredly rubbed his face.

"Ratchet?"

Dropping his hands, Ratchet turned to see First Aid watching him worriedly, "Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

The old medic gave a weary smile, "Just tired. Today was….hectic."

First Aid huffed, crossing his arms, "If you didn't still insist on trying to take care of every patient yourse-"

"Alright, alright," Rathet raised his hands, palms out, "I know. It's nothing to do with you, First Aid, I know you're more than capable. Old habits just die hard, is all. Real hard."

There was silence as Ratchet lowered his hands, and after a moment, First Aid nodded, "Go rest. You look dead on your feet."

"We need to go over our supplies. Should be prepared. We went through a lot toda-"

"I can do that. Go rest. Recharge before you fall over."

Ratchet nodded, and glancing over the two patients in their beds, and smothering back the urge to go look them over one more time, he turned, and headed out into the hallway.

The walk back to his Hab was short - he always preferred to stay nearby in case there was an emergency - and after slipping back into his living quarters, he thumbed the button for the door. As it slid shut behind him, he sagged back against it, tiredly rubbing his face again.

He felt old.

Pushing himself up and away from the door, he crossed to the counter of his small Hab, and rummaging around a little in a cupboard, pulled out a small pitchet and glass, and poured himself up a glass of Engex. He needed a drink, and wasn't in the mood to go to Swerve's.

He frowned slightly at the pale liquid in the glass, but carried it over to a chair, and sat, swivelling it so he could look out through the window, at the starfield passing by.

Ratchet rocked back in the chair slightly, tasting the drink on his tongue for a second, before swallowing.

Today had been a long, long day.

It had started when Blaster had announced the Lost Light was picking up an sos from a nearby planet - Autobot signature. It was garbled and the signal was degraded, but the gist of it was clear: they were in a bad way, and needed help.

Rodimus had instantly jumped into action, gathering up a small crew to go and investigate. The group, consisting of Rodimus, Ultra Magnus, Skids, Whirl and Cyclonus had taken a shuttle down to see what was going on.

And what was going on was a rather full scale attempt by those same Autobots and a larger group of Decepticons attempting to kill each other in the messiest manner possible.

 _ _So much for the war being over__ , he thought, bitterly.

The arrival of Rodimus' group changed the odds, and the Decepticons had fled, leaving behind two extremely injured Autobots. According to the newcomers that had made it onto the Lost Light in one piece, they were called Jumpstart and Richochet.

Jumpstart nearly had his Spark shot to pieces, and Richochet had had a fluidline severed, and was leaking everywhere.

They had been carried back aboard the Lost Light, and the operations to save their lives had started. First Aid took Richochet, while Ratchet had taken Jumpstart. He had more experience with severe injury so near the Spark.

The operation to safely stabilize the Spark, rework the Spark Chamber, repair the tiny, paperthin cracks that could still cause the Spark to shrink, had taken hours, and when he was done, Ratchet had found himself stiff and sore, and cold.

He sighed again, his eyes fixing on the stars outside his window.

Nights like this he felt… ancient. Empty, and hollow. He knew he should go and lie down on his slab, and recharge. He knew he was going to feel this in the morning, as was happening more and more often lately, but he couldn't. His brain was moving too fast, images competing for space and time in his cortex.

He took another sip of the engex, feeling the drink seep into his system, warming him slightly.

He knew the memories were coming, unbidden, and knew there was nothing he could do to stop them. Sometimes they circled around like Turbofoxes, waiting to attack. And there was never anything he could do to stop it.

Taking another, long drink, he surrendered to the memories, letting them shuffle through his head like a deck of cards.

(Shuffle)

"Are you paying attention?"

Ratchet snapped to with an almost audible sound, blinking, feeling like he had just been caught doing something illegal.. He clutched his datapad to his chest as if under attack, blinking up at his older mentor, "Yes, yes of course - I was just thinking."

The older doctor looked at his young student, a faint smile on his face.

"You look tired, Ratchet. Are you recharging ok at night?"

"Yes. I was just up late last night going over my notes. There were so many notes from yesterday. It took a while to review them again."

The older doctor watched Ratchet quietly, thinking.

Ratchet looked down at his datapad, trying to look busy, feeling the scruitiny of the doctor heavy.

He always felt like he didn't belong there.

No…that wasn't right. Ratchet always felt like __others felt__ he didn't belong there. Most students arrived at the Academy with a famous patron to speak for them, help them. They usually came from the larger cities, fit in well, knew everyone important. While he had come from a smaller place of origin, and hadn't know anyone. He had arrived on his own, putting himself through, no one to speak on his behalf.

The older doctor looked down at Ratchet, "You know, being driven to do well is admirable, Ratchet. But burning yourself out is not. The other instructors here have noticed you often look tired, stressed. You have the highest marks in your class so far, and although I hear the other students say you seem to come by yourm arks easily…don't kill yourself getting them. Make sure you look after yourself."

Ratchet laughed, uneasily, "Yes, of course. I don't want to collapse on top of someone."

"Tell me-why did you choose to become a doctor?"

Ratchet blinked up at his mentor, "I… what?"

The instructor, an older bot, nodded at him, his face kind, "I know you said all this on your application, but humor me."

Ratchet looked at his datapad again, as if he would find the answer there, before looking back up, "I want to help people, of course. The sick, the injured. "

"Many do," the doctor said, "what makes you different?"

Ratchet paused, frowning. What was teh doctor looking for? If he knew what answer he wanted, he might….

"I..just feel this is what I was made for. It feels right. Like I'm __supposed__ to be here. I want to make a difference."

Ratchet's voice, young and strong, was clear and proud as he answered. But he faltered slightly when he saw his mentor just smile at him, almost….sadly.

"Make a difference. Yes. We all want that, don't we?"

Ratchet fell silent again, as his mentor seemed to sink into his own thoughts for a moment.

"Ratchet….as you train….as you learn…remember…you won't be able to save everyone. It's not possible."

Ratchet watched his mentor in silence, feeling confused and almost…let down.

The older bot stirred, and turned back to his lessons, starting to teach again.

(shuffle)

"Bring him in here."

Ratchet stepped back several paces to allow the two 'bots to carry in the third. The injured 'bot was badly beaten, fluids leaking from various cracks and cuts in his upper dermal surface.

Shaking his head, Ratchet motioned for the two to place their assumed friend on the table, and then he went to work, motioning for the other two to step back into the waiting room. He spoke aloud, but quietly, as he worked over the patient from head to toe.

"Abrasions, several deep gouges and dents…-three, no, four are leaking, those need to be seen to….probably no internal structure damage but a deep scan just to be sure…"

He heard a door open and someone enter. The heavy tread identified the newcomer to the doctor, and he spoke without looking up.

"Another victim of the insanity on the streets, Orion."

"It's getting worse out there, old friend." Orion's deep voice filled the room.

"You know this city is moving towards a tipping point, don't you? Something bad is coming. The injured just keep coming."

Ratchet turned to the side, picking up a scanning tool, focusing it on the injured 'bot, looking through the hand-held device to see if there were any severe internal injuries.

Orion sighed as he stepped up and stood beside Ratchet, looking down at the injured 'bot, a smallish fellow, green. His face had apparently gotten the worse of it.

"I know, Ratchet, but we can't just give up. I don't believe the people will just turn rogue. We have to keep hope, have faith."

"Faith?" Ratchet snorted, "Tell that to that speedster you brought in last week, the one all hopped up on nervecircuits. Sonic and Boom worked him over nicely. What faith does he have that everything is going to work out alright?"

"Hmm. You think he listened to you?"

Ratchet snorted again,"Probably not. Dead End is on it's way out." He paused, " I hope he listened a little, though. I think he could make something of himself if he tried."

Orion shook his head, " It's not like you to be this negative, Ratchet."

Ratchet paused, then smiled, "Sorry. I'm just stressed. It seems the people needing help are never ending. And I hate just patching them up over and over again, is all. I fix one up, and sometimes it's barely a week before I see them in here again."

"Do you regret setting up this free clinic?"

Ratchet paused, then shook his head, glancing up at Orion, "No. I was going crazy before. Spending all my time looking after the Primes and their minor complaints, when I knew people needed real help. I have to thank you for that, at least. Getting out of there."

Orion nodded, his deep voice softening slightly, "Things will get better, you'll see."

Ratchet turned, smiling up at his friend, "You're right, Orion.. You always are."

(shuffle)

The lights flickered overhead, the heavy explosions and booms not just heard, but felt through the feet, as well. Each time the sound like thunder rumbled out, the bottles and tools laying out jiggled and danced on the table, clinking and chiming mockingly.

All around him were the sounds of moans and cries of pain, some louder than others. Ratchet's neck was stiff and his back felt like it was on fire. He had been standing too long in one place as he worked on the Autobot on the table before him. But at least he had been able to repair the damage caused by the rifle, welding up the leaks, stopping the bleeding, sealing up the torso better than he had hoped. There would be a scar, but soldiers like the one in front of him usually wore them with pride, like badges of honor. This would just give him something to brag about.

He stepped back from the patient, hands covered in inner fluids clear up to his elbows. He arched his back slightly, grimacing at the quiet popping sound it made, and watched as the two orderlies carefully transported the patient from the table to a stretcher, and carried him off to recover.

Ratchet walked to the washup room, and started cleaning his hands, watching almost distractedly as the purple fluid swirled down the drain. He needed a rest. Glancing at the clock, he saw there were a few minutes left in his shift in the military triage/hospital, and then the other surgeon would be on.

And by the Matrix he needed a break.

Ten hours, almost non-stop, of racing repairs, fighting injuries. Most somewhat minor, but still needing surgery. He was starting to feel loopy.

He never thought he'd miss the slower pace of his old job.

Drying his hands, he moved to a chair and sank into it. As another heavy crack of thunder sounded - bombs dropping somewhere - he leaned back and closed his eyes for a second, hoping Optimus was ok. He was out there, leading the Autobot army against the Decepticons.

He felt sick.

Ratchet had found himself basically drafted into the war, and here he was, in a field hospital, less than twenty clicks from the main battlefield, repairing those soldiers who were getting the worse of it.

Well…He knew he hadn't really been __drafted__. He probably could have remained behind, if he had protested, but…how could he just stay behind, knowing Autobots were being hurt, even killed, and not even __trying__ to save any? What kind of doctor would he be then?

Sometimes he lost them, and that was hard. But they were always….well, he knew they were on their way out. The damage was so severe, Ratchet knew they wouldn't make it. Unconscious, damaged beyond any hope of repair, he would give them painkillers and peace, to pass from this world to the AllSpark in dignity. It was all he could do.

But he was viciously proud of his ability to wrench others back from death, taking an almost sadistic pleasure in knowing he had torn one more Autobot from death's hands.

He leaned forward, rubbing the back of his stiff neck.

"MEDIC! MEDIC!"

Ratchet was on his feet and moving before his brain even registered what was going on. He bolted from the washing room in time to see two orderlies carrying a stretcher with a wounded Autobot on it. The two carrying him were covered in purple inner fluid, severe bleeding. The 'bot on the stretcher was groaning and shifting in pain.

A third orderlie was trying to keep another 'bot from coming in, trying to hold him back, as the red and black soldier cursed and tried to push past, insisting on going with his friend.

The minute the orderlies had the wounded Autobot on the table, they turned and ran back to help the third push the worried soldier outside, admonishing him to stay out of the ER, that everything possible would be done for his friend.

Two nurses ran up to help Ratchet, and started checking over the patient.

Ratchet saw the patient was awake, and his eyes, though showing signs of drugs, were filled with agony. He writhed on the table, groaning and shaking.

Ratchet's eyes and mind began the inventory.

Missing a lower limb - right leg torn off below the knee, most likely from an explosion. Mine, or mortar. Left hand utterly crushed, fingers gone. There was burn damage on the dermal skin of the body, including the face. One optic destroyed, crushed and burned. He seemed to be alert, though, and clear of thought, which was a good sign.

The nurse beside him continued to check the patient over.

The patient on the bed shifted, groaning in pain, but managed a weak chuckle as he watched Ratchet look over his injuries.

"Not the best looking bot you've seen all day?"

Ratchet chuckled as he continued his first inspection, "I've seen worse, soldier. How much pain are you in?"

"I've felt worse," the 'bot on the table said, trying to grin. He suddenly tensed up, shuddering, and gasped, but relaxed after a second, "'Course, I've felt better. Where's Slowshot?"

"Red and black?"

"Yeah."

Ratchet told a second nurse to get an IV started, "I saw him trying to push his way in here. Worried about you. Friend?"

"Conjunx," the 'bot on the table said, grinning, "He's a bit of an idiot, but what can I say? He's a good guy."  
"And what about you? What's your name?"

"Backdraft. Took a mortar to the face. Stupid, huh?"

"This war's all about stupid, haven't you heard?" Ratchet chuckled, nodding to the nurse to set up the IV as he approached. Backdraft seemed to be doing well enough, internal injuries were probably at a minimum. And his shift was almost over. Some pain meds to keep the injured relaxed….by the Matrix his feet __hurt__ and he was so __tired__ ….

"How's it going out there?" Ratchet asked, watching the nurse work.

Backdraft made a face, pausing as a wave of pain swept over him for a second, "Bad. 'Cons are pushing us back. We lost ground."

Frowning, Ratchet nodded.

The nurse set up the IV, and stepped back, letting Ratchet move in again. He took a close look at where the leg had been torn away.

"Optimus is was gathering us for a push," Backdraft said. He took a deep breath as the painkillers started to ease into his system, "Ahhh. That's better. I took out three of those bastard 'cons, though. One two three, just like that!"

"Good on you," Ratchet murmured, as the first brought him a print out of the diagnostic readouts. He ticked them off in his head.

Fluid gasses were ok, good. Most chemicals were in the right order, save for a few being lower, but shock would account for that. Everything seemed to be in order, for a 'bot who had trauma. Pressure was…

Ratchet frowned. Why was pressure down so much? There was hardly any blood. He wasn't bleed-

Optics widening slightly, he turned to Backdraft, dropping the readout, starting to run his hands over the torso, pressing slightly with his fingertips here and there. Under his hands, Backdraft grunted, then suddenly spasmed, crying out in pain.

Ratchet felt a heat emenating from a spot, and his heart dropped.

Hemorrhage.

Ratchet turned to the nurse beside him, "Cut the IV, stat! Give him 2 units of Polydex, now!"

The nurse hastily turned the valve on the IV line, and took off running for supplies. On the table, Backdraft looked at Ratchet, pale, "Doc?"

"Just going to put you out, make sure everything's ok inside," Ratchet's fingers had lightened up on the patient's torso, and he was fighting to keep his face neutral. Beneath his fingertips, the hotness was getting larger, and Ratchet knew it was a buildup of fluids there. Backdraft was bleeding out inside his own body.

"Hey."

Ratchet turned to see Backdraft looking up at him, his one good eye wide. He was no fool, and the sudden change in the doctor told him something was bad, "Level with me, doc, what's going on?"

"Nothing, it's all routine," Ratchet's mind was whirling in his head. Why hadn't he checked for internal injuries __before__ giving him an IV? The drugs were thinning the fluids, he was bleeding out faster! Why hadn't he stuck to protocol? You never, EVER, gave those drugs before checking-

Under his hands, Backdraft suddenly tensed, and shifted, grunting in pain, "Doc."

"It's going to be ok," Ratchet fought to keep his voice level, "I've got this under control. Just stay still, don't move around a lot. NURSE!"

Backdraft grunted again, and suddenly started to cough. A great gout of purple fluid seeped from his lips, as something inside the 'bot broke completely. Backdraft gasped, and coughed again.

Now panic was setting in, knowing that something is wrong, and the desire to flee from it. He struggled with Ratchet, trying to get to his feet.

The medic screamed for the nurse again, calling for more energon and fluid, and fought to keep Backdraft on his back, "Stop fighting me, I'm trying to help! You have to keep still!"

Another horrible gout of purple blood, now splashing up onto Ratchet's chest.

The nurse materialized, syringe in hand. Ratchet put all his weight onto the closest arm, holding it still as the nurse sank the needle in, compressing the plunger. The clear fluid slipped into the stream of the dying 'bot.

A second later, and Backdraft settled back onto the bed, weak. Ratchet turned, picking up a scalpel, but keeping it low, out of Backdraft's sight, as he waited, frantic, for the bot to sink a little lower into sleep.

Ratched opened the chest plates of Backdraft, reading to start cutting into the lower layers when needed.

He still had time, surely. All he had to do was find the bleed and pinch it off, and get the extra fluids into Backdraft. He'd stablize, and Ratchet could-

"Doc?"

"I'm here, I'm right here." Ratchet grabbed Backdraft's hand with his free one, "Stop talking and stop fighting the drugs."

Backdraft's optic had dimmed, but he grinned. A sight all the more chilling for the blood on his lips and chest, "Tell Slowshot I love him. And tell him to stop being scared of throwing the damned grenades."

"You can tell him yourself," Ratchet said, hearing his own voice was getting tighter with panic, "Just stop fighting the drugs!"

"He's such….an idiot at times." Backdraft grinned again, "But by Primus can he make me laugh."

Ratchet nodded, as if this was the wisest thing he had ever heard, and the second Backdraft's eye had dimmed out, the scalpel was up, flashing, and the 'bot's chest was open.

He tried not to wince.

Inside Backdraft, everything was floating in a soupy purple mixture. The bleed had been ongoing for some time, and even Backdraft's spark was practically swimming.

He ordered suction, frantically looking for the tear in the tubes that lead to the bleed as the fluid level was lowered.

There!

One of the larger lines, running just below the spark. By the Matrix, everything that blown out there. No wonder there was-

He started sealing up the tube, but there wasn't much to work with. It wasn't a nice clean cut, but rather the tube had been torn, ripped open-

A sudden, shocking sound interrupted his thoughts, as the instruments around Ratchet started to sound.

The nurse, beside him, started reading them off.

"Pressure is plummeting, doctor! Chem signs are down, vitalis signs are down. He's crashing."

"No, no he's not," Ratchet snarled, "I'm not-"

Another siren.

"Flatline!"

(Shuffle)

Ratchet sat on the step outside the hospital. Head back, eyes closed. His hand ached. As did his face.

He had tried __everything__.

When Backdraft had flatlined, Ratchet had called for the crashcart, and between him and the nurse, had followed protocol to the letter. The proper chemicals. Attempting to shock him back. Ratchet's mind had been in a bright, cold place as he moved through the motions of trying to save Backdraft, but all the while, a small voice, way back in the back of his mind, was talking.

 _ _It's your fault.__

 _ _You didn't follow protocol.__

 _ _You didn't wait to be sure.__

 _ _He was quietly bleeding to death all the while you stood there and joked and talked.__

 _ _What kind of doctor are you?__

When he had realized he was losing, he had almost become savage, shocking the patient again and again, refusing to give up. He could save him! He could still save him! The nurse had tried to pull him away from Backdraft at one point in time, but he had violently shoved the nurse away, and continued to try and shock him again.

It wasn't until the nurse finally go through to him, and pointed out that the spark chamber was empty, did he realize it was over. Backdraft's spark was gone. It had blinked out at some point during his frantic attempts to bring him back, and now all he was doing was brutalizing an empty body.

The other doctor had been there by that time, and furiously drove Ratchet from the ER. Numbly, he had gone outside, and leaned against the door. His thoughts were cold and sluggish, not wanting to move.

He needed to talk to someone, but….he was a doctor. Who did he talk to? The other doctor was working, there was no one else on site that could help him. Optimus was out fighting somewhere…

He had turned, and punched the concrete wall of the field hospital hard enough to hear something in his hand snap. But the pain had felt good. It had been what he deserved. Because he had let down his guard for one minute…and now someone was dead.

Backdraft was dead.

It hadn't been much longer after that that Slowshot had found him. After being informed his Conjux had died, he had turned, and took off, hunting down the doctor that had failed him. Had failed his love.

Military guards hot on his heels, Slowshot had still reached Ratchet first, and managed one good hard slug to the face before the MP had grabbed him, wrestling him to the ground.

 _"_ _ _YOU BASTARD! YOU LET HIM DIE! WHAT GOOD ARE YOU? HE WAS WORTH A THOUSAND OF YOU! I'LL KILL YOU!"__

Ratchet had stood, shocked numb, the pain in his fact not even registering as he looked down into the hate filled face of Slowshot, tears of grief and agony in his optics, fighting against the MP for one more chance at striking the doctor that had failed him.

(shuffle)

Ratchet had sighed, turning as he heard the door behind him open.

The other doctor stood there, drying off his hands. The thundering war in the distance had gone silent…a temporary lull, if nothing else.

Ratchet turned back to looking ahead as the other doctor, a surgeon by the name of Regimant, sat beside him. He sighed, rubbing his neck.

"How are you doing, Ratchet?"

Ratchet grunted, saying nothing else.

"It was one hell of a day, huh?"

Silence.

Regimant leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, then spoke lowly, "This can't be the first one you've lost."

Ratchet stiffened. He started to stand up, to leave, to walk away, but found himself too weak. Too tired. Too…exhausted.

"No. But he…he showed no signs, Reg. He was laughing and joking, and…"

"It happens. Shock. Little pain. You know the signs."  
"I know the signs," Ratchet snarled, "And I killed someone."  
Reg turned, his dark blue face angry, "No, YOU didn't kill anyone! The __Decepticons__ killed him. You were tired and exhausted, and overlooked something easily overlooked."

Ratchet felt his face, "I don't think Slowshot would agree."

Reg sighed, "Ratchet, when I heard you were going to be working here, I was worried."

Ratchet blinked at Reg.

"You're good. Very good. But you had little…you had __NO__ military hospital training. Few of us did, although I had a fair bit of experience working nearing a mining facility, so I was used to sudden, severe trauma. The work you did before you came here was the odd severe accident, and the rest was routine surgeries. They were complicated, yes, and complex. But you never had one trauma after another after another, did you? No letting up. The constant pounding of the war not that far away?"

Ratchet said nothing, but watched Reg's face.

"What I saw you do here, after you arrived, was nothing short of amazing. You saved bots that in all honesty might have been lost. You're fast. You have fast hands. But this is something you have to get used to. The constant __exhaustion__. Constantly not being sure if you did something you should have. It's why we're all sticklers here for protocol. It doesn't matter how many times you've done something, nine, twelve, twenty. That twenty-first patient comes in, you STILL follow the protocol, even if you're positive you know what the answer is. Because once you get tired, you will make mistakes."

Ratchet, rubbed his aching face. Face still in his hands, he spoke, his voice muffled, "Have you ever lost one? I don't mean the poor bastards that are on their way out as they show up, but…one that looked fine?"

Unseen by him, Reg nodded, then spoke, "Yes. I've lost some too, Ratchet. I've been so tired I've made mistakes. And you'll carry it with you for the rest of your life. I'm sorry…I wish I was wrong, but I'm not. And I can tell you it wasn't your fault a million times, and you won't believe me. Because I didn't believe my mentor when it happened to me. And I still don't."

Ratchet dropped his hands, looking at the other, older doctor, "I don't think I can do this. I don't think I'm cut out for this. I'm…I'm scared."

Reg leaned back, draping his arm over his face to cover his eyes, almost relaxed, "Scared of what?"

"Of becoming…"

Silence.

Reg finished, "Bitter. Angry. Hard. Cold. Jaded."

"Yeah."

Reg nodded, "You probably will."

"Thanks," Ratchet snapped, crossing his arms, "I'm glad my fears are so glib-"

" _ _Oh shut up, Ratchet.__ You're not the first military doctor and you won't be the last. And every one of us loses something as we work. It's the dangers of this job, the one the schools don't tell you about. You operate daily on bleeding, screaming, dying Cybertronians and you think you're __NOT__ going to become angry and bitter? Good luck. War is nothing but us patching up 'bots so they can go out and get blown up again. That's __it.__ "

 _"_ _ _Then why bother!?__ " Ratchet suddenly yelled, pushing himself off the step he had been about to sit on, _"_ _ _What kind of idiot would do that to themselves?! Who would set themselves up to turn into some angry, bitter old…"__

Reg sat up, and smiled sadly at Ratchet, "Who indeed? Those of us who want to help. Those of us who have the calling. Who feel a great desire to help those that need it. Ratchet…if you want to go, go. I won't hold you here. I would never force any doctor to stay in this sort of environment. That's cruel. But take a night to think it over. Because I think you're the type that will stay. Because even though you know you're going to patch up a soldier only to have him blown up again…..you're the type that wants to patch him up the second time too."

Ratchet fell silence.

Reg stood, and stretched, and looked at Ratchet, "This war…..it's going to go on a long time. A very long time. I know what people are saying, it will be over soon. But it won't. And everyone who stays is going to be scarred. The soldiers will wear their scars proudly. Us medical people? We'll hide ours as best we can, but we'll be dealing with them for the rest of our lives."

Ratchet watched, silently, as Reg turned, and slipped back inside the hospital.

(Shuffle)~~`~~`~~`~~`~~`~~`~~`

Ratchet came to slowly, realizing the starfield he had been watching was now gone, and there was only blackness outside his window. His glass was empty as well, finished a while ago.

With a grunt, he got to his feet, legs and back protesting. He put the glass on the table, and moved towards his recharge slab.

Stretching out, he paused.

Yes, he felt old, but….oddly complete. He had had one hell of a career, that was for certain. He had saved many lives….and lost others. But he had been standing there, at the end, when Megatron stepped down, when the war ended. And while he did indeed carry his scars inside, as did many others, they were at least able to be carried. He felt a sense of relief in the knowledge that younger doctors, newer doctors, would be spared the horror of working in a field hospital. That they would be able to practice without ever knowing the pain of being a doctor in a __war__.

That made the scars a little lighter.

END


End file.
